The Little Bell
by PetitsBisous
Summary: Short one-shot. Even a well-practiced violin concerto soloist such as Mr. Edelstein has trouble with the work of the masters. Those well-calloused fingers from years of practice can only take so much at once.


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 **Author's note:**

 **There's a lot of musical terms in here. Very much geared for classically-trained audience. (I've played 10+ years on piano guys. I can't help it :P)  
Also, I highly suggest you watch on youtube:** /watch?v=85Owalzvsnc **for a listening reference. If you want to. If not that's cool too.**

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Roderich watched the conductor step onto the stage and take a bow before the audience. He heard the seemingly endless applause as the man bowed, as if he was their god. Their king. The man looked to the sidelines to Roderich; his grip tightened around the neck of his violin, and he swallowed hard. If he was the king, then Roderich was the prince. The brunet headed on stage after him, only to receive a round of more applause. A small forced smile stretched across his chapped lips, and he too bowed as the conductor did, before standing aside, in front of the first violins. Standing in front of the crowd, apart from them, as the soloist always did. Standing, higher than them, valued as the most important player.

…No pressure.

The audience quieted, awaiting their entertainment. Roderich looked to the conductor, the conductor looked to him and nodded. The young man wedged the black bottom shoulder rest piece of the belly of the violin between his chin and shoulder, left hand resting underneath the neck, fingers curled into position. Right hand gripped tightly onto his bow, which he now raised, poised. Ready to strike any moment. _La Campanella,_ arguably Paganini's greatest work, started with a single note by the violin soloist, leading the whole orchestra. Everybody waited on _him_. Even the conductor was frozen in position. Roderich was the first note, the dramatically held eighth note. An F-sharp. Him. All him... Roderich took in a deep breath, and closed his eyes slowly. He could feel all eyes on him, the audience at the edge of their seats, the conductor's baton floating in air, ready for its down stroke as soon as the soloist queued in… Already there was sweat at his brow.

And with the slightest of wrist movements came the one first note, Roderich always drew it out longer than it had to be, and then the conductor began the down beat and along came the orchestra to accompany him. Strong, short staccato notes from the soloist that the string ensemble mimicked quietly. And of course, the tiny little bell in the percussion section that mimicked the incredibly high notes of the violin, back and forth as the violin soloist was also a bell talking back. _La Campanella._ Italian for "The Little Bell." And then the first refrain was done, and Roderich could rest his bow, and the orchestra then copied the same phrase, louder. That was how Paganini was, bounce the soloist off of the orchestra. Roderich watched the bows in the first and second violin sections as they played in unison, along with the woodwinds and brass following in, but not for long before his part came again and he continued. Fingers nimble. Perfect vibratos. On-pitch. Nearly invisible grace notes and trills that most likely the audience would never catch… but Roderich knew that they were there. It was impossible to tell where his fingers went, they moved so fast.

And then the frenzy of pizzicato. Roderich knew this was his weakest spot, and his brow furrowed as he plucked away at the strings, fingertips even speedier than before. Arpeggios in pizzicato? You've got to be kidding, Paganini. The brunet clenched his jaw, feeling his wrist aching. Which wrist hurt the most, he wasn't entirely sure- both the one curled around the neck of his violin and the bowing one seared in pain as he went on. His heart beat rapidly, just almost matching the tempo of the music, chest tight, eyes and brow straining…! Until, finally… finally. The barrage of staccatos stopped, interrupted by one held note, so high that it was like a horse whinny until his finger slowly slid down the fret to give it a falling feeling.

And then a pause, just enough of a pause to get one short breath in. A pause so quiet a man in the audience's cough could be heard.

And then the orchestra crashed into the refrain from the beginning, it repeated in major first! Then in minor! Faster! With more accents! crescendo! The ensemble repeated, the flutes echoed, every instrument joined in for the very last alternating of chords until- one final note.

And it was over as quickly as it started. All players lowered their instruments, including Roderich, and the audience roared. The young man let out a shaky breath, taking a queasy bow before them. The conductor did as well, and Roderich looked to him, his lip quivering, the corners of his lips barely able to curve into a smile. The conductor slung an arm around his shoulder, smiling to him and then back at the audience. Roderich looked out to them, only blinded by the stage lights, his expression as if a lost puppy.

"You did good, kid," was the only thing he heard above the roar. And although it was muffled by the cheers, the words clearly rang in Roderich's ears... as clear as a little bell.


End file.
